Wed for Duty
by Devryn
Summary: The Blight is over, but tensions brew in the royal court. Anora, now the widowed queen, is pledged to marry the bastard heir to the throne, Alistair. But will their relationship ever be more than strained, their marriage ever more than a political power play?
1. Chapter 1: The Queen Alone

**Author's Note:** This is my first attempt at a chaptered fic, but I have them all plotted out already.

My premise is a take on an Anora/Alistair pairing, mostly focusing on the difficulties the newly-wed couple faces in overcoming their mistrust of each other and opening up. _Disclaimer: A few tiny details might be AU, so if you see a little something different with titles, dates, etc, that's on me._

Anything you recognize belongs to Bioware. I'm just playing with the characters.

I hope you enjoy and please feel free to leave whatever commentary you'd like in a review!

* * *

The king is dead. Long live the king.

But the queen is soon to be wed again.

Anora Theirin, née Mac Tir, is alone in her chambers, and tonight she broods. The queen paces her floors, the stone cold despite the carpets laid upon them and the fire the servants had stoked in the hearth. But Anora is no stranger to being cold, and she will not let such a little inconvenience distract her. She thinks best when moving.

Candles flicker dimly on the walls, illuminating her reflection in the polished brass mirror. She looks tired, Anora thinks, noting the dark circles under her eyes and the lines at the corner of her mouth. Perhaps some, or even many, would call her beautiful, but she thinks of herself as severe, austere. There is no warmth in that gaze, no feminine seductive airs in her walk.

She has never ruled from a seat of beauty, and tomorrow, when she is again wed to a king, she won't then either. Anora has done what is best for her country, always.

_But has she?_

The blonde whirls in place, her long hair for once let free of its tight bun, falling over her shoulders. Her hands clutch at her nightgown as anger wells beneath her breast. Her father, his blood spilt before her very eyes, now lies dead, joining her husband, the golden, youthful king.

Can she be blamed for Loghain Mac Tir's death? Anora has heard the whispers in the court that she was only too happy to welcome his execution before the members of the Landsmeet - a bloody display of her dedication to Ferelden above all else. That, since her barren womb bore good King Cailan no heirs (a rightful curse from the Maker, they said, for letting a commoner take the crown) she'd eagerly pledged herself as Alistair's bride, desperate for the throne by any means. That she barely mourns for the darling king cut down in battle.

A bitter chuckle catches in her throat. If they only knew what their cherished Cailan had thought of her, what his plans had been – And with that Orlesian empress, no less! He was more than happy to leave her cold in their marriage bed, lusting after a foreign queen and dreaming of making himself a legend, a hero like her father. As though he could ever measure up to a true hero.

Oh, how she burns from the cruelty of it all! Anora's hands long to lash out, to rip the fabric of her gown or fling a vase across the room, but no, she restrains herself. If she had simply been born a man, then - then none of this hardship would be. She could rule the country as she already does, with her people's prosperity at the forefront of her policy, and none would care how she claimed her power or for the cut of her gowns.

But not all hope is lost, she reminds herself as she sank wearily onto her mattress. The Blight had been stopped, and though Ferelden has been ravaged, it will be rebuilt. Anora will make sure of it.

All she has to do now is endure her wedding to Alistair, dear fool. Bastardized blood of Maric in his veins or no, the boy is simply not made to rule, but he seems the sort who could easily be swayed by experience. Even if the mistrustful looks he gives her whenever they are together sting her pride.

It is the best for Ferelden. And that is what matters most, of course. It has to matter or else -

Anora sighs and buries her face in her pillows. There is no benefit to this line of thought, and tomorrow, she will again wed a king.

She needs her rest (though it does not come).

* * *

No Alistair in this chapter, just a lot of Anora brooding. Juicy interaction bits will be forthcoming future chapters. I really wanted to focus on Anora and her inner turmoil for our introduction, since I think she's a fascinating character who doesn't get all the attention she deserves.

Again, please review and let me know your thoughts!


	2. Chapter 2: The Queen at Dawn

**Author's Note:** Thanks so much for your reviews and reads, folks. Here's chapter two.

* * *

The morning light trickles into Anora's bed chamber with unwelcome brightness. She thought she'd never fall asleep, but at some point in the night, she must have drifted off, though it could hardly have been but a few hours before. Her entire body aches, and her head throbs, her mouth dry.

She groans and presses her palms into the lids of her closed eyes, trying to ignore the rapping at her chamber door. The sound is persistent and is followed by the creak of iron hinges as the door swings open. The queen wants nothing more than to delay the wedding ceremony as long as possible (all of that scrutiny, _now_, might be more than she can bear), and at the same time, she yearns for it to already be over and done.

With a heavy sigh she lets her elven maid, a girl named Eyla, throw the bed covers aside and pull her from the warmth of her bed. If there is one thing to be thankful for on this morning, it is that at least her dressing will be less of a public affair than usual, since she ordered the usual coterie of Ladies of the Chamber away for the wedding. There will be enough ceremony today as it is.

The girl is - thank the Maker - respectfully quiet as she brushes out Anora's hair (not at all like those Orlesian maids; far too much chatter for her liking) and then braids it into long, careful pleats. These she winds into Anora's customary tight bun, decorated today with a single pale pink rose tucked with a pearled pin. Anora is cinched into her boned corset and wrapped in undergarments tied with silly little bows; it is a wedding set tailored especially for the event, in a pale cream with delicate pearl beads.

"Is he -?" Anora begins, then clears her throat and starts anew. "Do you know how His Majesty fares today?"

Eyla pauses in her work, nimble fingers on a bow at Anora's waist. She answers with her eyes downcast, intent on her work, and her voice soft. "I know...I know not, Your Majesty."

"Eyla, look me in the eye," Anora says, in that motherly tone she reserves for such gentle reprimands as this. "I hear hesitation in your voice. Do you speak true, girl?"

The elf swallows nervously and shakes her head. "I've not seen him, of - of course. But I've heard that His Majesty is...most displeased this morning. The other girls say..."

"Yes?" Anora prompts.

"They say he's not taken to his breakfast, which is most unusual, and that he was heard in argument with his uncles, the Arls."

It's the most Eyla has ever spoken in her presence, and clearly a bit embarrassed, the maid falls silent again and continues the arduous process of buttoning Anora's gown. The queen bites her lower lip, barely paying any further attention as Eyla dresses her like a doll. Though Arls Eamon and Teagan aren't, _strictly speaking_, Alistair's blood relations, they're the closest things he has to any and strong proponents of his marriage to Anora in the first place. There can be only one topic, then, that could cause him to raise his voice around the brothers Guerrin: Anora herself.

It's not the most pleasant news she could hear of her husband-to-be, but Anora expects no better. Their relationship has always been...strained. However, she's fought in a war to save Ferelden one time, and she certainly can again. Alistair can hardly be as bad as the Blight, after all.

Gown secured around her small frame like armor, Anora is ready to face the upcoming battle, and sweet boy or no, Alistair has no way of winning. She's played this game before.

* * *

So, I got distracted by Anora's inner monologue and this chapter went somewhere different than I intended. But the next chapter is the wedding, with: gown details (ooh), more appearances from canon characters, _and_ guaranteed Alistair. I might even take Helena L's advice and try my hand at a bit of Alistair POV.

Drop me a pm or a review if you have any thoughts/feedback!


	3. Chapter 3: The Wedding

Chapter three. Please enjoy and drop a review/PM if you like!

* * *

Anora is not one to fidget, but her gown scratches at her neck and wrists, the dress lined with delicate lace there. The garment is of the modest cut she favors - high collar, long sleeves - but it is still much too decadent for her own personal tastes. Orlesian silk, in a pale cream color (not white, of course, for no fresh bride is she) comprises the bulk of the trousseau, bodice and hem beaded with tiny pearls in delicate clusters. The skirt is full and cumbersome, far heavier than Anora finds practical or comfortable. And her tiara is too tight upon her head, pinching at her brow.

The throne room is swimming with the crowd, all the nobility from the sole remaining teyrn, Fergus Cousland of Highever (no successor has yet been chosen to replace her father as Teyrn of Gwaren), to the various banns and knights assembled in rows of seating. In an unprecedented move, Anora has also invited a contingent of commoners to sit in the balcony.

For all those bodies packed in the hall, there are only two that Anora can focus on.

Revered Mother Boann stands at the end of the aisle, her presence raising more than a few eyebrows. The controversial priest is publicly known for being the only member of the Denerim clergy to minister to the elves in the Alienage, and she is a young Mother besides. A more reasonable choice for the ceremony, the old guard agrees, would have been the more experienced and respected Mother Perpetua. Anora's choice of officiant - here, in the sacred city of Andraste's birth - does not go unnoticed, and whispers line the aisle. First the inclusion of commoners at the ceremony, and now this: Have the Queen's political leanings revealed themselves already, this soon into a new reign that has yet to even officially begin?

Beside her is the newly anointed king and Anora's groom, Alistair Theirin, garbed in the ceremonial armor of the king, recovered from his dead half-brother's body at Ostagar. Clad in that golden raiment, crown on his head, Alistair is an incredible likeness to Cailan. A pang clenches at Anora's heart, and her eyes dart down. She cannot meet his gaze, even from this distance.

New King of Ferelden, replacement for her dead husband, murderer of her father...

Alistair is many things to Anora, but above all, he is a stranger. She hardly knows him, but the sight of him brings a prickle of tears to her eyes. Loghain's execution came by his order, his hand the one to deal the killing blow. And now, on her second wedding, it is not her father escorting her down the aisle. She has been given another replacement, and though Arl Eamon is kind to her and supports her reign, he is but a political acquaintance.

Anora swallows back her emotion and walks toward her fate.

Eamon leaves her alone at the altar, rejoining his brother, Teagan, now newly-appointed Arl of Amaranthine with the death of the Howe line. Anora and Alistair too are the last of their own lines, and Mother Boann chooses the importance of their joining for her sermon, highlighting a theme of renewal combined with the traditional emphasis on the duty to follow Andraste's example as Bride and marry faithfully.

If the squirming of both Alistair and the audience is any hint, Mother Boann's ceremony is a bit heavy-handed and long, but, at last, she concludes with a verse from the Canticle of Threnodies:

"At last did the Maker

From the living world

Make men. Immutable, as the substance of the earth,

With souls made of dream and idea, hope and fear,

Endless possibilities."

"With this new era in Ferelden history, a Blight now vanquished and a nation born again from the ashes, we witness the historic rejoining of two noble lines, blessed by the Maker with endless possibilities," the priest continues, motioning for Anora and Alistair to exchange rings. It is the first time since the ceremony began that she has looked directly at him, and his expression is hard to read. She thinks he winces, just a little, when their fingers touch and palms clasp together.

"May He turn his gaze upon you both," Mother Boann concludes, and the bored crowd sits a little straighter in their seats for the eagerly awaited kiss.

"Glad that's over. Any longer, and they should make us saints," Alistair mutters in the first words he's said to Anora all day, forcing a smirk. The joke doesn't reach his eyes.

There is an awkward pause, and then he leans over, his lips barely grazing her skin, at a spot just left of her mouth. The contact is over as soon as it begins, and Anora feels her cheeks flushing red with an uncharacteristic flush of shame.

The new husband and wife join hands and walk back down the aisle, Anora all false smiles and Alistair managing something like a grimace. The applause is loud at first but falters, and the walk away from the crowd feels more like an embarrassed retreat than a joyous stroll into marriage and a future together.

* * *

So this was a bit of an escape from Anora's head, but I wanted to throw her to the wolves of the wedding crowd. I also ended up tossing in a little political emphasis, but I think it's important to their marriage and Anora's character especially.

Coming up: the wedding night. And drama ensues.


	4. Chapter 4: The King at Dinner

**Author's Note:** Here we are, chapter four. It's a bit later than I would have liked, so I've divided this chapter into two parts to have an update ready now.

Enjoy!

* * *

Alistair finds it hard to look at Anora throughout the rest of the day. A feast has been scheduled, a full twelve courses over what feels like as many hours, though, in reality, the celebration stretches six hours, bringing the official wedding events to a close as twilight lingers over the rooftop of Denerim. Performances and speeches fill the spaces between courses, a stage set opposite the high table in the feast hall. Musicians serenade the party-goers, and actors even recite a (much-dramatized) ode to the Theirin line and the glorious history of Ferelden.

It's all a bit tiresome, really, and not even the elaborate cheese course does much to cheer Alistair's petulant mood. Anora is quiet beside him, making polite chitchat with Arl Eamon and graciously accepting the well-wishes of the lords and ladies who parade before their table. Alistair says nothing and picks at his food. His dejected mood (obvious to anyone with a passing skill of reading emotions, as Alistair knows he wears his feelings on his sleeve) earns him questioning glances from the guests, but he hardly cares.

No one he would have invited is present. With the exception of the two Arls Guerrin, everyone he cares for is dead or gone. After the Battle of Denerim, Wynne, Leliana, even the assassin Zevran and the witch Morrigan have all gone their individual ways. He is the last of the Wardens in Ferelden, and the thought of who _should _have been left to be Commander has him reaching for his wine again, swallowing down the lump in his throat. The wine tastes just as bitter, but he keeps returning to his glass, servants keeping it always full.

Alistair glances up from his goblet to see Fergus Cousland offering him a wan smile. "Congratulations, Your Majesty, and all of my best wishes as Teyrn of Highever are extended to you for your -" he begins, but the King interrupts the teyrn with a scoff.

"Oh, spare me the niceties, Cousland," he says, dismissing with all formalities and proper titles. His voice might ring a little loud, since Anora stiffens at his side and whispers something about going easy on his wine, but Alistair ignores her. "The only reason you're here as Teyrn anyway is that Elissa is dead."

He doesn't think he's slurring his words, but maybe he is. He can't remember how many cups he's had anymore. Anora bristles at his side and whispers another urgent plea: "Alistair, _please."_

Fergus, for his part, takes the insult in stride. "Your Majesty," he maintains etiquette, even as his voice lowers in volume. "My sister died a hero, and I know she cared deeply for you. She would want nothing more than your happiness -"

"If that's all she wanted," Alistair interjects again, his words too loud in the hall. Conversations patter to a halt, and all eyes are turned to the royal table. The dance troupe on stage falters mid-leap but continues on, though no one is watching the performance any longer. "Then _why_ did she die and leave me -?"

He notices the silence, the way his pained voice is the only one in the room. Part of him registers that he's being inappropriate; part of him notices that Anora has withdrawn into her seat, her cheeks burning and her eyes downcast. Part of him realizes that he's being cruel; Fergus lost Elissa too, lost his entire family - parents, wife, child - but the new Teyrn has accepted his duty without complaint. So Alistair snaps his mouth shut.

Fergus clears his throat. "Congratulations, again, Your Majesty. Maker watch over you," the teyrn bows quickly and returns to his seat. Conversation slowly builds again in the hall, and gazes revert away from the spectacle of the King.

Alistair retreats into his wine glass again, thankful that no other guests interrupt his misery. Elissa should have let him make the final blow, be the sacrifice that slew the Archdemon and ended the Blight. They'd promised themselves to each other, and now, all he's been left is no time to mourn, responsibility he doesn't want, and Anora as his replacement bride.

No, Alistair, decides, he can't look at her. Not for another few hours at least.

* * *

So my experiment to channel Alistair's POV ran darker and a little more off-track than I thought it would, but we're still on trajectory for the upcoming wedding night scenes in the next chapters.


	5. Chapter 5: The Queen at Night

**Author's Note:** Here's chapter five. Thanks so much to everyone who left a review/sent me a PM! I really love receiving and appreciate your feedback.

* * *

Anora retreats to her bedroom after the celebration dinner, as is customary for the royal wedding night, although the eagerness with which she escapes her groom's presence is hardly typical of a new bride of any stripe or status.

Inside, she is _fuming._

How can Alistair embarrass her like that? Neither of them is delighted with this marriage, of course; she knows that. But doesn't he understand the importance of keeping up appearances? Their nation is in a precarious situation, and they _must_ present a unified front to help the reconstruction. As her father learned the hard way, they have nothing to gain from dissonance.

As the door to her chambers slams behind her, Anora catches a glimpse of her reflection in the looking-glass: pinched mouth, furrowed brows, cheeks flushed. She looks bitter.

And she hates that.

With a heavy sigh, Anora takes a shot of Antivan brandy from her dresser and avoids looking at herself. She snatches her tiara off her head, snagging a few strands of blonde hair; the crown catches, and she tugs harder, snapping the errant locks. The crown comes free, placed on the dresser with a heavy _thunk_, and the broken strands of hair float to the cold stone floor.

She is still sitting alone at her dressing table when Eyla enters later, a bit hesitantly.

"Your Majesty?" the maid dares. "I've come to -"

"I know why you've come, girl," Anora snaps, and the ever-shy Eyla flinches a little at the tone of her voice.

The Queen waves the elf over to her. "This is not my first wedding, after all. Get on with your duties, child," she says, a little more softly, as she stands.

"Of course, Your Majesty," Eyla nods and, lips pressed into a thin line of concentration, begins the long process of unlacing Anora's gown. The heavy fabric is folded and hidden away in a trunk especially designed for the trousseau; Anora is left in her undergarments: corset and chemise, bloomers and petticoat. All are delicately embroidered with gold thread and held in place with those tiny little bows she despises.

Eyla notices that Anora's tight bun has come loose, a few wisps of hair floating free around her face like a tired halo, but the Queen waves away her attempts to smooth and mend the hairstyle. It is the King's duty and honor as husband to see his wife's unbound tresses, so she lets the locks alone as they are. Eyla instead stokes the fire in the hearth and curtsies on her way out of the chamber.

"Good eve, Your Majesty," she bids, and Anora is again alone.

* * *

Anora is unsure how to measure the passage of time in that quiet bedchamber. The tapers have not been lit, and she sits solitarily in the flickering light of the fire. A chill lingers still in the air, but she has not drawn a robe around her shoulders.

_Alistair should be here by now._

The King is meant to visit his bride in her chamber the night of the wedding and consummate their union. That is how it has been done and _should_ be done.

But the last heir to the line of Theirin has made no appearance at the bedside of his new wife.

Her anger has dulled to a sputtering coal, like the dying heat of the fire, but it flares awake again, tinged with a new emotion. Perhaps it is the sting of rejection.

How can he? How _dare _he? First he makes a fool of her and their entire marriage before it's hardly begun at the feast, and now, he refuses to render the union official! If Alistair means to spite her, then he is more of a fool than she realized. This marriage is not personal; it has nothing to do with her and everything to do with Ferelden.

How can the boy not see it?

Hating her for not being that dark-haired martyr of a Cousland girl is immensely stupid. No amount of rage or tears will bring back the dead. Anora has learned that lesson well enough, but it seems one that Alistair missed. At least his Elissa died with honor; _her_ name will be remembered in song and in the books of the history scribes. It is not a legacy she is certain her father, the Hero of River Dane, will still have.

How can Alistair not be thankful for the small graces? How can he so carelessly throw the promise if a rebuilt Ferelden away, toss their marriage in her face?

With a surge of energy, Anora pushes herself up from her bed and, without even bothering to slide on her slippers, charges out of her chamber and down the hall to the King's rooms. Torches flicker on the walls of the halls, and moonlight filters in through drawn curtains from the windows. The King's suite is forbidden to her, but she doesn't even hesitate and flings open the door.

* * *

If anyone is curious, I basically based Anora's undergarments off 18th century fashion – because I can.

Up next is the chapter I'm mentally calling "The Confrontation." Stay tuned, and please feel free to send any comments my way via PM or review! Thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6: The Confrontation

**Author's Note:** Here is chapter six, everyone. It's an exercise in mixed perspectives, and hopefully I succeeded!

Some instances of coarse language in this chapter, but I believe it still fits within the purview of the "T" rating. Please read and enjoy!

* * *

Alistair isn't startled when his chamber door flies open, flung open with a furious energy he doesn't share. He's been mulled into a dull malcontentedness, a lethargy that has left his drink abandoned at the tableside. It's been an hour or more since he's taken a sip from that tumbler, but the sight of his…his _wife_ storming through the doorway like she's on a personal divine mission from the Maker has him wishing he hadn't given up on the liquor so soon.

He supposes a glimpse of a woman clad in nothing more than her undergarments would send a titillated thrill through most men, but Alistair feels _nothing_ when he looks upon Anora. She is the exact opposite of everything he craves: fair-haired where his Elissa was dark; petite when Elissa was tall; shrill, calculating, cold, and dry where Elissa was none of those things. Elissa was warm and open and passionate and free.

So Anora's curves, however deliberately presented in silk and lace, stir no emotions in him, and the King sighs at the sight of his bride, slouching deeper into the pillowed embrace of his chair by the fire.

"Most people _knock_ first, or did they forget to teach you that in finishing school for queen pretenders?" It's a lazy insult and not his best sample of wit, but it will do. Anora hardly seems worth the effort of trying harder to shame her, when she makes it so easy.

Anora bristles at Alistair's caustic remark, and the door slams closed behind her, gravity swinging it shut on squeaking hinges. The King lounges by the fire, as entitled and relaxed as any lord back from hunting, hound at his feet. But there is no faithful dog resting nearby tonight, and the illusion of comfort is marred by Alistair's petulant brooding, his only companion a decanter of dark liquor.

"Says the bastard whose familiarity with noble society comes from shoveling shit in a stable," she spits back, automatically. "For a man who supposedly loved you as his own son, Arl Eamon did little to keep you from sleeping with livestock or being sent off to the Chantry."

The low blow has its desired effect, a hurt, confused look furrowing Alistair's brow. Relishing her small victory, the Queen continues, bridging the gap between them with a few long strides. "Nor did your 'foster father,'" Anora burdens the term with all the weight of scorn and sarcasm, "teach you much of a man's responsibility to his wife, or was it your intent to spurn your duties as king?"

She is closer now, a few feet of cold stone floor separating King and Queen, and in the flicking heat of the fire, Anora's shape is bathed in a pleasant glow. Her chemise and corset hug the slim dip of her waist and accentuate the curves of her bust and hips; her calves and arms are enticingly, scandalously bare, but no amount of flattering light will hide the smug, hard cast of her facial features in Alistair's mind or stop the comparisons to Elissa his memories summon.

"I am fully aware of what I'm meant to do –" he leaps to his defense, but Anora interrupts her King.

"Oh, no doubt _she_ taught you everything you needed to know," the Queen sounds haughty now, superiority dripping into her tone. Alistair narrows his gaze at Anora, a look that she understands at once. All discussion of Elissa Cousland is off limits; all the more reason to press the issue.

Anora has not come to start a fight, and yet, here she is, completely entrenched in an exchange of barbs. Alistair might have shamed her at the feast today, but here, the Queen has the advantage. She learned from her recurring battles with Cailan how to hit where it hurts, the weak spots to slip in a well-timed verbal dagger.

She doesn't _want_ to harm him, but it seems so simple now; this vengeful outlash so appealing and cathartic. All Anora had wanted was to confront Alistair and, what? Hear him apologize on bended knee and beg for her forgiveness? Let him sweep her into his arms and take back his every unkind word and heal their mistrust with a kiss?

No, that was naïve of her. There was really only one way such a confrontation could end, and this is it. Resigned to her role and enjoying inflicting what damage she can, Anora soldiers on.

"Oh, come now," the Queen laughs, mocking. "Did not darling Elissa teach you how to handle yourself with a woman?" There is no response from Alistair, but Anora is hardly ready to surrender yet. "And here I thought you two were love birds. Did not the whore drag you into a hay pile and let you fuck - ?"

"Don't _you _dare speak of her." Alistair rises from his chair with a lightning speed. He doesn't touch Anora, but he towers over her, his lower lip trembling with emotion, a glint of moisture in his eyes. "You have no right."

Anora laughs again, but there is a quaver in her voice. She is not afraid of Alistair – he lacks the temper of his brother – but now her triumphs seem a little hollow and ill-gotten. She didn't expect him to be so…so vulnerable. Her husband doesn't lash out, either physically or verbally; he just pleads for her mercy.

"I have every right," she asserts, folding her arms across her chest. The pose presses her breasts to the fore, and Alistair's gaze flits to her cleavage, but there is no desire in his eyes. "Just as I have every right to expect you, as husband and king, to visit my bedchamber this eve."

"I…I _couldn't_," Alistair confesses, voice low and eyes downcast.

Perhaps this is Anora's cue to make amends, to comfort her husband and repair the wounds her words have rent, but she is tired of following the script expected of her, and part of her still feels wronged and vengeful.

"Whatever doubts of your competencies the world might have, Alistair, I'm sure _this_ is not one of them. Cailan was never much of a lover, either, but that is no matter," Anora shrugs, nonchalant.

"Anora, I wouldn't touch you if –" his voice trails off, giving up with a shrug of his own shoulders.

Anora recoils as though physically struck, all of her former arrogance draining from her face, leaving her expression one of surprise and hurt. She stares dumbly at Alistair for a moment, the only sound in the room the crackle of the dying fire. When the Queen speaks, her voice is soft, defeated. "Am I really so undesirable? So reprehensible that you cannot stomach the thought of laying hand on me?"

"You really don't understand, do you?" Alistair looks at her like she is some slimy thing that crawled from under a rock, worthy of pity and disgust. "You just don't _get it._ This isn't some damned game, Anora; this isn't about you."

The King sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. "Loghain said all you cared about was yourself, and he was right. You're just a vicious snake, Anora," Alistair declares, without heat. His words are nothing more than a simple statement of truth, and they hurt Anora all the more for it.

The Queen spins on one heel and flees the room with as much dignity as she can muster, and it is not until she is safely alone in the sanctuary of her own room that she lets the tears fall.

* * *

I feel evil after writing all that. *ahem* Anyway, feel free to send me your thoughts or suggestions in a PM or review.


	7. Chapter 7: The Morning After

**Author's Note**: Finally, here's chapter seven! I had a bit of a dilemma on exactly how to proceed after the last chapter, and this is what happened. Get ready for a little more angst and a dose of humor.

Thanks for reading, and hope you enjoy!

* * *

_That went…well._

Alistair snorts and flops back down, defeated, in his armchair. Anora went as quickly as she'd come, a petite flurry of acerbic anger. He can't really blame her, but he also can't summon the energy to _care._ The wedding and coronation have left him drained, no time to rest. His time on the road with the Grey Wardens was a brutal pace, always racing to outrun the Blight, but at least Elissa was there, ready with a clever smirk and laughing at his jokes, even the bad ones.

Anora must not have a sense of humor, her ambition crowding it out. She claims to love her people and to be loved by them in turn, but all Alistair has seen is that loyalty to herself Loghain warned him about.

Like father, like daughter.

Maybe he should feel guilty for upsetting his…his _bride_, but it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth to think of Anora taking the place that was rightfully Elissa's, and Alistair decides to replace the sour flavor with a more pleasant burn, helping himself to another gulp of brandy.

He reaches into his trouser pocket and carefully extracts a crumpled shape, color faded to a dull pink. The rose was once a bright, vibrant red, its color a contrast to the dark, dismal blighted landscape around Ostagar, and it had drawn his eye at once. Its petals retained their supple texture, their vibrancy for so long, but now, it is dried and crumbling.

Alistair traces his finger along an edge of the flower, and it cracks under his touch. Elissa had given it back, shortly before the Archdemon lay siege to Denerim. For "safe keeping," she'd said. Maybe she'd known, had some clue of what would happen…

With a heavy sigh, the King tosses the dried flower aside. It lands near the decanter of liquor, and as he plods with weary feet to bed, the brandy accompanies him.

The rose is left behind.

* * *

The morning light trickles into Alistair's bed chamber with unwelcome brightness. He nursed the brandy throughout the whole night, and now the bottle is empty at his bedside. His entire body aches, and his head throbs, his mouth dry.

He groans and presses his palms into the lids of his closed eyes, trying to ignore the rapping at his chamber door. The sound is persistent and is followed by the creak of iron hinges as the door swings open.

"Andraste's _ass_. Can't you let me sleep late just once?" Alistair grumbles, hiding his bleary eyes behind one of the bed's fluffy pillows – of which there are far too many, in his opinion. "I'm the King! It ought to be my Maker-given right."

"Apologies, Your Majesty," comes the smooth reply of his valet, an aging gentleman well accustomed to managing the habits of willful Theirin brothers. "The wedding breakfast is in a half hour. The Queen requests your company for a private meal."

_Anora._ Of course.

Alistair complains a few more times, but the valet is calmly insistent, and despite his wishes otherwise, the King is dressed for breakfast and ready to meet Anora on time. No number of fine clothes can hide the bags under his eyes or relieve the pounding headache behind his eyelids and the nausea lingering in his stomach.

"Good morn, my dear," Anora greets him with a charming smile that rings so false he feels even more queasy. The two are in a small private room, uncomfortably close to the chirping birds outside the window in Alistair's mind.

"Is it?" he answers moodily, ignoring the scone Anora offers him.

"You look ill, Alistair. Too much wine at the feast?" Anora prods, looking supremely pleased with the King's misfortune. "You should eat something. Here," she waves the scone in front of Alistair's face, urging him on with a mixture of maternal concern and pure malice.

"Fine," he snaps petulantly, snatching the scone from her hand and chomping angrily. He considers throwing it at Anora instead. Or maybe at the birds outside.

"Why are we doing this, exactly, _my dear_?" Alistair asks, returning the Queen's term of endearment with a biting edge. "Why all…this?" He gestures broadly, scone in hand, at the spread of breakfast foods occupying the table: fruit, breads, porridge. A few crumbs from his scone land on the table, and Anora glares at them.

"I thought you liked breakfast foods, darling. Do you not care for your scone?" Anora feigns innocence, taking a demure bite of melon. "Besides, the morning meal is a customary wedding tradition."

"No, it is _not_," Alistair scoffs. "Even I know that."

"You doubt me?" Anora raises a brow. "I would never lie to you, my heart," she reassures with a smooth tone, abruptly reaching over the table to grab Alistair's scone. "Do you not enjoy spending a quiet hour with your beloved bride?" she goads, taking a triumphant bite of the scone.

"Hey, that's not fair!" Alistair protests, both in response to her question and her scone theft.

"No matter," Anora says between delicate nibbles of the illicit scone. "We've important business to discuss. It's time to talk of an ambassadorial sojourn to Orlais. Ferelden needs to remind the Empress of its growing strength and returned royal power."

Alistair snorts in disbelief. "What, Celene didn't get the wedding invitation? I'm sure Orlais knows about us. There's no need for us to go all the way to Val Royeaux to prove it."

"Precisely. There's no need to _us_ to go at all." Anora takes a final triumphant bite of the scone. "Which is why you're going alone."

* * *

So that chapter had two decidedly different tones, I'll admit. Call it my attempt at comedic relief, if you will.

The Orlais "cliffhanger" came to me suddenly, but, not to worry, I _do_ have plans for the trip. Oh yes I do.

Again, thanks for reading, and feel free to send me comments or suggestions in a review or PM!


	8. Chapter 8: The Letters I

**Author's Note:** Welcome to chapter 8! It's a little change in format that I hope will be entertaining and interesting. I think it will bring out some new sides to Alistair and Anora – at least, that's my intention.

* * *

_[A letter arrives from Val __Royeaux__, some days later. It is penned in a thick, scratchy hand, one careless with ink.]_

Your Majesty, Queen of - (Do I get a pass with the introduction? I think I do):

You did this on purpose, didn't you? Of course you did. I'd have written earlier to complain, but they apparently don't send letters from ships quite so well. And I was too busy being sick to write one.

But I'm on dry land now (I'm sure you've been wonderfully warm and cozy in Denerim, dearest Anora. We wouldn't want you to catch cold, now would we?), so here is a missive from your loving husband. Whom you so cruelly tossed out of the castle the day after his wedding. He has not forgotten.

_[A sentence begins here, but it is entirely scratched out, only the vague outline of letters decipherable]_

It's warmer here, did you know? (Have you been to Orlais?) You'd probably like it, I think. It would suit you, all the masks, hiding people's faces all the bloody time. My audience with the Empress is being "considered." Which means I now get to play tourist in the city and wait for Celene to decide to grace me with her presence (Maker, I hope her spies aren't reading this now).

Your husband, alone in a foreign country without proper cheese or ale,

Alistair

* * *

_[A letter is sent to Val Royeaux in response, in a much more elegant, curving script. The letter is clean, no ink blots or edits.]_

My dearest Alistair,

Most people would relish the opportunity to visit such a cultured country as Orlais and enjoy their visit in Val Royeaux. Have you visited the Grand Cathedral or the University of Orlais? I realize, darling, that you are one neither for religion nor education, but perhaps there is something in the construction there that might entertain even you. I have read that the city boasts some of the most beautiful and elaborate architecture in Thedas.

So, as you might surmise, no, I have not had the pleasure of visiting Orlais. I would like to strengthen Ferelden's bonds with the Orlesians – perhaps had we had greater connections during the Blight, we could have more easily beaten back the Darkspawn with our allies. The war is over, and now is the time for forging new and greater relationships. Petty grudges will gain us nothing.

I am needed here, to provide continuity to our homeland in its time of reconstruction and transition. I hope you will take your duties as ambassador as seriously, Alistair. There might be little pleasure in the task, but it must be done.

Her Majesty Queen Anora of Ferelden

* * *

_[The reply to Anora's letter arrives, worn and stained at the edges. The handwriting is as messy as ever.]_

Your Majesty &etc.

I took your advice. Toured the Cathedral and the University. Not my passion, really, but I suppose the buildings were pretty enough. The Orlesians at least know how to construct something huge and expensive, so that's one credit in their favor. But size isn't everything, of course.

I've been given quarters in the palace and an entourage of servants to follow me about. Absolutely everywhere I go, they're there, asking me if I want more wine or would care to tour these gardens or see those statues. It's almost a little…eerie, don't you think?

My audience with Celene is tomorrow. I suppose I ought to brush up on the proper introductions in Orlesian culture, but I think I'd just embarrass myself if I tried. I'm going to attempt the "honest but charming Fereldan" approach, Maybe they'll find it endearing.

Wish me luck,

Alistair

P.S. I bought you a book of etchings of the Cathedral. I thought you might like them.

* * *

So this was a bit short, but I didn't want to crowd it with too many letters back-and-forth in case formatting became confusing. Next chapter, there'll be a few more.

As always, hope you enjoyed and feel to send me comments or suggestions in a PM or review.


	9. Chapter 9: The Letters II

**Author's Note:** Welcome to chapter 9! It was written with a bigger delay than I'd wanted and runs a little short, but it's here now. As always, enjoy.

* * *

_[A letter arrives in Val Royeaux. Pressed inside is a dried leaf, red with fall color. Its hue has faded, hints of rusty red leeched onto the paper.]_

Alistair,

I wish you the best of luck with meeting the Empress. I suppose by the time this letter arrives you'll have already had your audience with her, but I'll offer some advice nevertheless. Celene is an [_scratched out_] imposing figure, but Cailan enjoyed her presence, and perhaps you will as well. All the same, she will be a valuable ally. Orlais has already extended her hand with aid during the Blight, and we do not want to let that goodwill fester and spoil. We should harvest it now.

Speaking of the harvest, the last of the autumn leaves have begun to fall here, and I thought to send you one to remind you of Ferelden. I know little personally of the climes in Orlais, but as you say it is warmer there, and perhaps this specimen of leaf will speak of home.

[_Another scribble disguises a word]_ Thank you for your thoughtful gift. Father used to collect maps and almanacs, and the illustrations were always my favorite part as a little girl. I am certain I will enjoy the etchings.

- Anora

* * *

[_The reply letter features more methodical handwriting, though the script is still blotched with a sprinkle of ink stains.]_

Anora,

Maker, I hope they're not reading my letters (they wouldn't do that, would they? Of course, they are Orlesian and, if Leliana - do you remember her? did you ever even meet her? - is to be believed, half of them are probably spies, but I'm a King! That earns me a little privacy, doesn't it?). She was right, though; the women - and men - here have the most ridiculous hairstyles. Haven't seen any live birds in nests yet, but the trend seems to be feathers lately. Giant, huge hats and a pile of feathers. How can they see anything with that on? Anyway, I'm rambling, and none of that is really what I wanted to say.

The Empress invited me to dinner - pheasants in little glass bells (why?) - and showed me the gardens. And she talked. A lot. I wish you'd have been here; you'd have had much cleverer answers than I. You know how I babble. Celene said she wants to visit Denerim again, now that reconstruction has begun, so I think the meeting mostly went well. I hope?

I'll be leaving next week, coming back home. Thank you for the leaf, by the way. It _[here a few words are scratched out_] did remind me of Ferelden, and I can not wait to return. I think I might almost be glad to see you as well.

- Alistair

* * *

Apologies that this chapter was a short one, but I wanted to update. Since we know so little about Celene I from the games, I've taken some liberties with how she's described here.

Feel free to review or send a PM with any thoughts or comments!


	10. Chapter 10: The King and Queen Together

**Author's Note: **Welcome to chapter 10! Huge apologies for the giant delay between chapters (I got bogged down with vacations, a national certification exam, and my computer dying on me and blah blah excuses). But! The finale is here now, so no more waiting.

As always, I hope you enjoy, and thanks for coming along for the ride. Please leave any final thoughts or reviews if you like. I'd love to hear from you.

* * *

"You look...quite well, Anora." Alistair hesitates, something like a flush brightening his cheeks. He and Anora are not fully alone now, surrounded as they are by a bevy of too-dutiful servants, dedicated to proving their usefulness now that the King has returned to court. Perhaps it is merely the unwelcome audience - too many eyes and ears to inadvertently spy on their reunion - that tinges his cheeks pink. Perhaps he has forgotten how to play the loyal husband before watchful lords and ladies.

Either way, the Queen is thankful that her own blush is disguised by the makeup she wears today (Eyla was taken aback when Anora requested she powder her cheeks and rouge her lips, but the effect, the Queen was forced to admit, was quite becoming, even if it were a vision of herself to which she was unaccustomed). It seems so...so unnatural and halted, speaking with Alistair now. Somehow, words flowed more freely on paper, little bits of herself hidden in those missives, and now, face-to-face with her husband, she finds them strangers anew.

"Alistair," Anora smiles automatically, that carefully groomed expression she has rehearsed time and again. "I trust your return voyage went smoothly?" She utters a few more niceties with hardly a thought, and the words fail to even register in her memory. They are meaningless little slips of conversation anyway, and she can tell by the look in Alistair's eyes this charade matters very little to him either. The gossiping and scheming nobles have seen the King and Queen reunite, the diplomatic voyage to Orlais appears to have been, if not a success, certainly no disaster, and the royal couple seems perfectly polite and subdued and dull. There is no more entertaining drama, no more embarrassing drunken tirades from the King, and no signs of a Queen disgraced. It is all entirely presentable.

And it is all a game.

But everyone knows that - even Alistair now - and the pair exchange their idle chatter and perform for the court. And when the Fereldan royalty retire to their bedchambers, there might be whispers, but none will confront or challenge them directly. Not now, in the face of their unified front. It will bring the country exactly the stability it requires.

What Anora needs now, however, is a reprieve from the charade; a dull throbbing pain has begun behind her eyes, and the harsh laughter of a gaggle of lords' daughters grates on her ears. Her respite comes in the form of Arl Teagan, whose request to speak with the King gives her a moment to slip away. She retires early and hides herself in her private rooms, shades drawn and candles extinguished.

* * *

Night has fallen completely when Anora rises from her bed. Her reflection in the looking glass belies her weariness, Eyla's paints and powders looking as vibrant as when first applied. Something in the image sickens her, but as she moves to wash the makeup away in the basin, there is a knock at her door.

"It's me," Alistair calls through the heavy wood. "I brought you some cheese. There was a platter after you left," his jovial tone rings a little false, but Anora breaks into a laugh all the same. She opens the door, only to find him standing there empty-handed.

"I thought you'd said there was cheese," she raises a brow, bemused.

"There was. I ate it," he deadpans.

"You are a complete fool, Alistair," Anora shakes her head in disbelief, but her tone is gentler now than in the days immediately after the wedding. Perhaps the weeks without seeing Alistair have made her soft. The Queen chuckles at the thought and waves him in.

His reply is as cheeky as ever. "I know," Alistair says, with that trademark grin. "You do look nice, though," he continues, with a segue that seems abrupt to Anora. "The...the makeup. It's different, but I like it." The flush returns to his cheeks.

"Thank you," is her answer, but she gives him a piercing look that clearly says _And?_ Alistair did not come knocking at her chamber door to dispense bumbling compliments, she knows.

"Look, I, uh -" Alistair begins, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck. "I just wanted to apologize. I've been...moping and complaining and moody about everything - the marriage and the crown and all - but it's not as though you've had a nice time of it it, either. And I.." He rubs a palm over his face. "Ugh, I'm such an ass. And I'm sorry."

Anora looks thunderstruck, for once at a complete loss for words. An awkward silence looms in the air before she finally shatters it. "Alistair, I...I suppose you are due an apology as well. I have been unkind," she winces as though the admission pains her, but it is spoken now and when Alistair's face cracks into a bright, goofy grin, she can not regret it.

"Aw, see?" he grabs her by the waist and pulls her into a tight squeeze. "I knew we would all get along."

Anora coughs into his shoulder, breath stolen away by Alistair's enthusiastic embrace. "For once I agree with you, Alistair. You _are_ an ass."

"Hey!" he pulls away, giving her his best sad-puppy eyes.

Anora scoffs and swats him lightly on the arm. "That doesn't work on me, I'll have you know. I already know your dark side." She withdraws from his arms, turning to walk towards a table near her fireplace, where a stack of books and letters is neatly collected.

"And yet you still like me!"

"I _tolerate_ you," Anora smirks over her shoulder and beckons Alistair over to the table. "The book of drawings you sent is here. Shall we look them over together?"

And they do. And as they turn the pages, their fingers touch.

**_Fin._**


End file.
